SLOW BOAT TO LEWES

         For a few seconds we were sorry we had not wired ahead for a reservation. There were already two lines of cars in the standby zone as the little Nissan filled the next-to-last spot in the third queue of fifteen vehicles. To our right, on the far side of lot were the smart people that had called or emailed for a confirmed spot on the 10:40 ferry. We arrived at 10:30. The woman at the toll gate asked if we had a reservation, and on hearing a negative answer, directed us to our spot after telling us, "Next boat after this will leave at 11:20, and then 11:40."

         Pam opened the windows and turned off the motor. I leafed through the booklet the attendant had handed us. The schedule did not show a boat at 11:40. Did the woman make a mistake? I assumed so. The heat began to press down on the roof of the car; we got out and stood while the next row of cars filled to our left. The 10:40 was loading. Those with reservations for that trip went first, and then the line on our far right began to move. The ferry swallowed that column and some of the line next to us before coming to a halt.

         "We should have made a reservation." That was me; I am bigger on ‘shoulda's and woulda's’ than Pam is. We had been looking at the web site as we stumbled around her apartment getting ready to leave. We wanted to know the cost and schedule. We read that reservations were recommended, but did nothing because we had no idea how long it would take to get to Cape May. Now as we stood in the sun feeling stupid, my rational mind came to the fore. "Had we tried to make a reservation for the 10:40, the time taken to do so would probably have made us miss the boat. I doubt that you could have driven any harder or faster."

         "You liked my driving?" Pam smiled as she said this; my lips formed a grin. Barreling down the Parkway, I realized we both had matriculated at the Steve McQueen/Gene Hackman School and done graduate work with New York City cabbies. As Pam swore at two pretty young things in a convertible driving at ten miles under the limit in the left lane, I could hear myself doing the same thing. If they did not see us in their rear-view mirror, they surely could hear THE CAT, as the country music station was called, blasting from our radio. In the right lane were the silver hair seniors heading for the casinos of Atlantic City in their Crown Vics and Caddys. The young things and the golden aged prayed to God for protection from the Late Middle Age Hellraisers in the Nissan.

         As CO-pilot I worked off my guilt handing Pam Altoid mints. At 2:30 the previous afternoon, at almost the same place on the New York Thruway that I realized that I had forgotten my office keys back in February, I became aware I had left behind the boom box that was critical to our act. That section of the Thruway is becoming my Bermuda Triangle. Because of my stupidity we spent the evening in Walmart. The world was not ready to hear us sing “I’ve Got You, Babe” a capella.

         The cars continued to flow into the lines in the waiting area. We broke into our water cache and shared a bottle. This was my first trip across the Delaware Bay on the ferry; Pam had been here before. When she ran out of ferry stories, we speculated if we would get on the next boat or the boat after that. The 11:20 loaded, taking the rest of the cars in the line next to us and the first eight or nine from our line. We were now fifth or sixth for what I thought would be a post noon trip. I walked to the bathroom and when I returned, they were announcing the 11:40.

         This was the trip I insisted did not exist, but Pam believed the attendant and was proven right. She always is. We drove on board, turned off the car and sat on the top deck for the voyage across the bay. I might not have ever been on this ferry, but I had navigated the Delaware Bay in my brother’s 29-foot boat over 30 years ago. I was the mighty shark catcher on those fishing trips. While I told fish stories, Pam regaled me with tales of the Coast Guard, Puerto Rico and Maine. We never seem to run out of anecdotes, though I expect some day we shall be like the man who reaches the end of the Internet in the television ad.

         I am sure our hot air helped speed the boat for within an hour we were embarking on the Delaware shore. Luckily for us, most of the traffic was heading for Rehobeth Beach. Our destination was the Chesapeake Bay Bridge and Baltimore. The roads were two lane; there was a steady flow of traffic and the speed limit was fifty, but now we did not seem to mind. The sky was high near water; the corn in the field was brown from drought. Pam recalled being in this part of Delaware, and from her memory conjured the image of watermelons. Next to oranges, watermelon is her favorite fruit. God must have been listening; ahead we spotted an open truck filled with something green. “A watermelon truck!” We laughed and would have hugged but Pam had to keep her hands on the wheel.

         The watermelon truck disappeared into its own Bermuda Triangle so that when we caught up to it, we found it filled with corn, but this did not stop us from telling others that it held watermelon. We had to be satisfied with spotting real melons at the roadside stands. We promised ourselves to come back and buy a melon some day.

         The road merged into US-50, which led to the Bay Bridge. We were traveling west; driving east was the entire population of Washington and Baltimore, all stuck in a six-mile line of barely moving traffic, all waiting their turn at the tollbooth to take them to the Eastern Shore of Maryland or the Delaware beaches. We had left Watermelon Land and were on the approaches to Baltimore. The car hit not one, but two frame rattling potholes as we neared our hotel. We pulled into an underground parking lot, towed our cases on wheels to the hotel, Pam with a clothing bag in hand and I with an framed oil painting that kept clipping my ankles. The refugees from New Jersey and New York had arrived.

         We were given a corner room. Our instructions told us to sign in for the convention as soon as we found our quarters. We put our bags down, used the bathroom and then looked at each other. Our eyes twinkled. We had survived an odyssey of seven hours in a car and were still smiling at each other. “Do we have time, David?” “I think so, plenty of time,” as I hung the “Do Not Disturb” sign on the door.

Valatie 8/20/02